


How Dreary To Be Somebody

by barteringdreams



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety, As if the world needed another one, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Friendship, Mages, Modern Girl in Thedas, Panic Attacks, Who knows where this is going, waiting on da4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26488978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barteringdreams/pseuds/barteringdreams
Summary: Armed with a quick tongue and magic she can barely control, Alysanne Seyton desperately tries to steer the reins of a newborn Inquisition, and finds that the only one she can trust in this terrifying new world is the most dangerous man hiding in it. At least she knows the Dread Wolf's plans enough to derail him in time - not that she plans to let him know that.A Modern Girl in Thedas fic where Solas is treated like the nerd he is.Title comes from the Emily Dickinson poem, "I'm Nobody - who are you?"
Relationships: Fen'Harel | Solas/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	How Dreary To Be Somebody

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello! Welcome to this pet project of mine. I adore Solas and also want to punch him in the face repeatedly, so this fic was borne out of that, as well as a fair amount of quarantine boredom and procrastination. Welcome to my world!

_Day 3_

_Evan,_

_I spent three bells with my hand on my heart last night for two reasons, if I am to be honest with myself, which I never truly am. The first was to remind myself that I was real. It’s alarming how the thrum of blood can remind you that you need to work to get a permanent roof over your head, and perhaps a sword or two at your side. The second was to try to fall asleep, to get up the nerve to brave the Fade again, to find_ him _. I’m in Honnleath, that much is clear, but I’m still trying to find someone to lead me to Haven. Anyway, the Fade evaded me - or perhaps I evaded it. I have not slept in two days, now. You always say I get worse when I need sleep._

_In better news, the innkeeper traded my silent help washing dishes for the week for the room. Two nights in the stables have been more than enough, although the horses’ snorting does do wonders to remind myself that I am not the only Earthen creature here._

The putrid stench of horses and drunken men swirled up through the open window, wound together with the sound of quiet merriment from the tavern below. Someone played a lute softly in the distance, so faint it could almost be her imagination. She pulled the candle towards her, the rusted holder screeching across the worn wooden desk, and held her palms up to the flame to warm them before picking up the quill once again. She was used to the pattern now – dip in the void-black ink that was far too expensive for its own good, scratch out a sentence or two if she’s lucky, and repeat, bringing the parchment up to her lips to blow on the wet ink in between thoughts. The strands of the feather danced on her quill as her hand shook, her heart beating as if it were trying to escape as she considered her next words.

_I may have a plan. But I need to know when the Conclave will happen. Can I save them, too? What would happen if I stepped on that butterfly on the path that Thedas now walks?_

_Evan, I need your help._

_Where are you?_

She screwed her eyes shut against the rush of nausea that came with uncertainty and unfamiliarity. She gripped the table to steady herself as she quaked.

“Fuck!” Her quill snapped neatly in two from her calloused fingers’ death grip on the fragile thing. It splattered ink in tiny flakes across her apron, and for some reason – the sight of stolen ink on stolen clothes in a stolen life – _that_ set her off.

The lute and horses braying were rapidly drowned out by her breathing as she struggled to breathe. In, two, three, four, hold, two, three, four…. Tears leaked from her eyes in frustration as she shoved the heels of her palms into her eyes, as if to hold them back from seeing. Eyes shut, she blindly grabbed for her letter, gripping it until the paper began to tear under the strain. Her mind escaped her, running off into the blackest reaches of her imagination until all she could see was sickly green light in her mind’s eye, and herself, the girl with the power to stop it, crying in the corner of a filthy room in an inn in Ferelden, far from the people and places she could reach if she was only less of a _weakling_.

Something thrummed behind her heart, like a second heartbeat, potent and terrifying as the pumping feeling spread through her arms into her fingertips.

She was a monster, an invasive species, she didn’t belong here, but she _had_ to, but soon, she knew, it would all explode --

Her imagined Conclave disaster was so clear in her mind that she didn’t think the fire in her hands was real.

It was only when the crackle of burning paper popped up from her hands did she begin to rise out of the panic attack, staring at her words on parchment being eaten up by hungry orange flames.

Well. Fuck.

She sat motionless for a few minutes, staring at her hands in accusation as if they would explain themselves if she glared hard enough.

The paper was blackened and flaking away in parts, with only her salutation remaining, all evidence of her written terror swiftly carried away by the breeze floating through the window. Only one word remained: _Evan._

Evan. Her brother. The teenage idiot, a world away and right next to her, tattooed on her eyelids when she shut her eyes to cry every time, telling in a reedy voice to get back on her feet, telling her to look around at the beauty of the world – making fun of her for disappearing to play her video games, “ _Sis, don’t you know the story already, this is your sixth character_ \-- _”_

Forgetting herself, she huffed out a laugh as she imagined her inevitable sarcastic reply on her way to the console.

Evan. God, he would be positively _giddy_ – serious, yes, but excited, thrilled to explore, “ _Think of it as a new adventure, why don’t you_ –“

Dropping the paper, she breathed in and out and closed her eyes. She visualized her body, sitting lotus-style on the floor, and searched for that heartbeat feeling in her spine that she previously attributed to her anxiety and nausea. She breathed calmly out her nose, and imagined scanning herself, like an X-ray, but found nothing. No, that’s not right, there was something – a cold mass against her spine, hiding away behind her heart, a thrumming at her back pushing back at her gently as she prodded it.

Is that – was that –

With a thought and a shove, the mass – or pool, more like, ran down through her arms and flowed into a small orange flame in the center of her palms. It hovered over her skin, casting a light on the lines of her fingers. Curiously, she bent one finger up and curled it into her palm to touch its wiggling light, then quickly yanked it back – yeah, ok, that’s real fire.

As she laughed harder, the flames jumped, burning brighter in response to her heartbeat growing quicker. Suddenly scared, she imagined cutting off the connection from her fingers to her tiny mana heartbeat, and the flame snuffed out with a puff of smoke, almost like it was offended to be put away.

Incredulously, she laughed out loud for the first time in two days.

I’m in Thedas, she marveled to herself, and I’m a mage.

She grabbed her straw pillow and screamed into it in unapologetic excitement. For all the shitstorm that this was, she was a mage – a mage! She had something that was hers. That tiny flame was _her._

As soon as she stopped hyperventilating out of excitement into her pillow, two thoughts suddenly occurred to her:

_I will never be defenseless again._

And, just as suddenly:

_Templars._

A shiver ran down her spine at the thought of the metal robes and their terrifying Holy Smite. _As if I didn’t need protection before._

The telltale beginnings of what was sure to be a loud brawl echoed through her window, and she rose to shut it so she could concentrate on her future in this bizarre new land. As she rose, she stepped on the crinkly scrap of burnt paper that was her letter and diary entry. She smiled as she once again read her brother’s name in her scratchy handwriting. She reached up to touch her short-cropped hair and her fingers stilled in her brown bangs as she stared at the word _Evan._ She rushed to pick up her half a quill, dip it in ink, yank up her sleeve, and write on her forearm:

Step one: Steal boy’s clothes

Step two: Steal a ride

Step three: Fix the world

Well, at least one and two were simple enough.

She cleaned herself up as best she could without a bath or a mirror and strode out of her room with all the confidence that a twenty-something newborn mage from another universe could have.

The tavern was popular that night, with a few merchants gambling at the front table and Bannorn soldiers crowding the bar, drinking ale and swapping rumors. She left the door open to the kitchen as she rinsed mugs and scrubbed pots to hear their tales as they tried to impress one another with outlandish tales. She knew better than to trust most of their stories, low on the societal totem pole as they were, but they were entertaining, if nothing else, and many she knew would contain hints of truth here and there.

The topic of conversation rolled lazily from King Alistair’s mistress (perhaps the Hero of Fereldan, she wasn’t sure, they were mostly talking about the shape of her tits and not her grand political endeavors) to Dwarven merchants ripping them off, and finally to the Conclave. Many were aggressively cynical about its chances of success, citing the insanity of blood mages and the crazy Kirkwall templars. Only one man was downright hopeful, a shy man from Denerim who had made that specific bar stool his home for the past two nights. The others all shot him down and he scowled into his pint. “Well,” he spat in a thick Denerim accent, “when the ravens arrive tomorrow, I guess we’ll see.” The rest of the bar grumbled their acknowledgment around him.

Tomorrow.

She didn’t know how fast ravens flew, but that meant that the Conclave was starting – or had already started – today or tomorrow.

The rag splashed into the soapy water as she straightened, heartbeats pulsing restlessly. The cook glanced her way before shaking her head and continuing to stir. Hands shaking, she pulled up her sleeve and read her message again. Steps one and two – they needed to be done now. Who knows, after the Conclave, how travel would be affected, or if she would even be able to get to Haven at all.

She _had_ to get to Haven.

Her broken quill and corked ink bottle were stowed in the pocket of her apron, along with all the coin she carried – it was a bad idea to leave coin unattended in a room in an unknown world. She rolled her necklace under her fingers as she looked out the window to the drying racks.

Silently, she abandoned the dishes and crept out the back door to the drying lines, covered in plain clothes for merchants who could pay for their laundry. Glancing down at her hips and breasts, she grabbed a man’s tunic that flared past her hips to hide her figure, cheap leather trousers, and a hat to distract from the planes of her face. Under the shadow of the inn, she tore off her apron and ripped off a long rectangle of fabric. She pulled on the trousers, slipped out of the servants’ dress, and held her breath as she began to wind the strip of apron around her breasts, pulling them tight to her sternum. She quickly yanked on the hat and man’s tunic, and looked at her reflection in a puddle on the ground. If she slouched, she looked like a boy, perhaps in his teens. Still a target for some, perhaps, but much safer than traveling as a woman.

Satisfied with her now-forgettable silhouette, she began contemplating the logistics of stealing a horse from a drunk soldier when something changed. Her mana trickled down her back anxiously as she tried to figure out what had startled her, but heard nothing. That was it, she thought. Something was missing. The men were still talking, the lute still playing. What? She glanced west towards the forest, and the staggering fact hit her with all the force of a bulldozer: the birds had stopped singing.

Her eyes widened in terror as she connected the dots and looked up at the sky just to be blinded with green light.

Alysanne Seyton, the woman from beyond the Nothing, fell to the ground in shock as the sky tore open.

**Author's Note:**

> duh duh duh.... 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feel free to put comments about what you would like to see/what i can do better/anything at all. This is my first time writing fanfic and I'm trying my best, team!
> 
> dar'eth shiral!


End file.
